When the Moon's Filled Up
by Great Gomerel
Summary: Post S3 finale. They really don’t know why they bother with interns. BurkeAddison friendship with possibilities.


"When the Moon's Filled Up." Not mine. K+/PG. Post S3 finale. They really don't know why they bother with interns. Burke/Addison friendship with possibilities.

(Well, Addison _did_ tell Burke to "dump Yang, and marry me." So I shall boldly declare this within the realm of canon maybes. Oh, bite me.)

-----

Addison has this air about her—Burke's not sure quite how to describe it—that simply breathes _confidence_. Not the edgy, do-or-die, reaching confidence that Cristina carries with her everywhere. Addison's confidence is easy, relaxed: a second-skin. It says to him, _of course you like me, and of course I like you. We're likable people. That's just the way it is._ It helps, to be sure, that she's a beautiful woman. Burke appreciates that about her in the way that a man of his refined taste must, naturally: to do otherwise would be an act of injustice. And he could come up with a list of the reasons why he thinks she's miles too good for the men who've been lucky enough to sleep with her. (For starters, she's witty, smart, generous, caring, and a powerful force in surgery.)

But in the end? He likes her because her manner tells him that he should. He's a control-freak and something of a male chauvinist (though he masks it scrupulously), but something about Addison makes him okay with taking orders from a woman. Not that many people are allowed to call him "pathetic" to his face and get away with it. Fewer can make him _laugh_ when they do it. But Addison is a woman of class, and he was raised to have enormous respect for her kind of female. So when she addresses him by his first name and assumes that he will return the favor—when she acts like he's someone she can call a "friend"—he's far too well-bred to contradict her.

Theirs is a friendship of the intelligent and dignified. He can dance to unheard music around Cristina, and she can scarf down muffins around Miranda, but when they're together, they behave like a higher order of people.

He likes her, so he's fine with it when she's the one to find him outside the church, standing in the graveyard. She doesn't say anything, and neither does he, for a while. He doesn't ask why Karev left her side to run out, earlier. She doesn't ask why he did it. They just stare at the headstone in front of them: _Christina Anne Johnson, loving wife and mother. 1910-1973._

Eventually, he finds it necessary to say something. "I should get going. I need to pick up some stuff from the apartment."

She's looking at him with eyes that understand but refuse to pity. "You shouldn't drive. I'll take you by there." He doesn't argue—just follows as she weaves her way through the parking lot.

-----

"Welcome to my home," she says, ruefully, after he's checked in at the reception desk of the Archfield. He snorts and gives her a look of agreement: _now _that's _pathetic_. When the elevators close behind them, she sighs quietly and turns to him with a half-smile and an invitation.

"Want to grab a drink, after you're settled in?"

He looks at the trumpet case in one hand and the tiny duffle bag in the other. "Won't take long. Meet you downstairs in ten minutes?" She's clearly pleased—and maybe a bit relieved? Solitary confinement doesn't have to come immediately.

When he joins her at the bar, she's already halfway through her first drink. Well, she's never been the kind to waste time, on anything. (Except maybe her marriage to Shepherd.) He places his order and hastens to catch up with her.

By the time they've had three (four?) drinks each, they're indulging in complaints quite openly.

"Teaching hospitals are the eighth circle of Hell," Addison philosophizes. "An endless daily dose of public whipping."

"That doesn't make sense," Burke mutters. "Who gets whipped in Dante?"

"Seducers," she responds, darkly. "Stupid, _stupid_ interns."

For some reason he finds this funny and starts chuckling. She glares at him for his lack of sympathy. "It's just," he tries to explain. "I didn't think—so you _did _end up sleeping with him, after all."

She's obviously mortified, but she recovers quickly. "Yeah, well, some of us at least have the decency to feel guilty."

"Is that why he left? Did you dump him because you felt guilty?" He can see her taking _professionalism_ to that kind of extreme.

"No," she says flatly. "He didn't want me. He's in love with Ava."

"That patient with amnesia? Seriously?"

She rolls her eyes at his terminology, and drawls the word back sardonically: "_Seriously_."

He'll drink to that.

-----

"I'm thinking of getting out of here. Find some sunshine, that kind of thing."

He's not surprised; he's often wondered why she hasn't done it already. "That might be wise. But still—you would be missed."

She smiles her thanks, and signals for another set of refills. When the bartender sets the glass of Riesling in front of her, she raises it in Burke's direction.

"To our fifth or sixth round of new beginnings," she proclaims with a slightly-lopsided grin. It's clear she's beginning to get a little tipsy. (Where _tipsy_ is a severe understatement.) He thinks—hazily, as the alcohol's starting to get to him too—that right here, right now, she has just the proper amount of flush in her cheek to look positively fetching. Any more red and it will clash with her hair, but at this particular moment, he feels sure he's never seen anyone look lovelier.

So he kisses her. And she doesn't seem to mind. Her tongue even says it's pleased to make his tongue's acquaintance. As he weaves his fingers into her hair, he reflects that she has excellent taste in wines. (A fine thing, in a woman.) The kiss itself is slow and drowsy, and she's only starting to work her arms around his neck when they realize it's time to breathe. He watches her with half-shut eyes as she sets one elbow on the bar and rests her chin on the hand attached to it. Her lips are pink and puffy; her head's tilted so that on one side red hair tumbles down fluidly.

They are equals in many senses, but one especially: they can say that their most recent messes have been entirely of their own making. They feel that bond keenly, this evening.

"It's late," she explains as she unsteadily rises, placing one hand over his gently. "Should be better, in the morning." He nods. It's probably a lie, but it's one they both need to believe. He doesn't stay long after she's gone. When he's given the bartender his room number, he staggers upstairs, all alone, to try for sleep.

But he feels a little better knowing it's the same thing that she's doing.

-----

A/N: I'm going to miss these two, next year. Their dynamic is one of my favorites in the "underutilized" category. My Alex/Addison muse has gone quadriplegic. 'Tis depressing. But reviews would cheer both of us up, immensely.


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